


Golden

by Neffectual



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: BDSM, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, light Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen and Zevran find they meet in the middle; darkness against light, depth against shallow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden

**Author's Note:**

> I have a saying about good friends being golden; their worth never diminishing, heavy with sentimental value, and always worth keeping hold of.

They first meet in a dark corridor underneath the Ferelden circle, before everything goes south, when Cullen is a green recruit, barely nineteen and all muscle and swagger he doesn’t know how to use yet.  
“They shouldn’t let you wander these halls alone.”  
Cullen jumps at the voice, all thinly veiled sex and suggestion, which appears to come out of nowhere, and spins around, wildly.  
“Who’s there?” he demands, and the answer is a slim, blond Elvhen man slipping out of the shadows as if he comes from nowhere at all, and leering at him.  
“Is this what they teach you in training? Wave a big sword around and the rest is easy?” the elf purrs, and then pauses, as if considering, “Well, a man with a big… sword is always welcome.”  
Cullen hears the innuendo inherent in the pause, and blushes pink to the tips of his ears, a reaction he wishes he could grow out of.  
“You’re not meant to be here.” He says, and knows his voice shakes a little, squeaking where he hasn’t yet settled into the rich tenor he’s supposed to have.  
“Oh, sweet thing, I have been many places I should not be.” The elf says, and winks, “Maybe I could show you a few ways to enjoy that sort of thing.”  
It’s not a questions, Cullen’s blush rising to a deeper red, and he stutters, hating himself for the slip, and presses his back to the wall behind him, keeping his eyes on the stranger.  
“L-leave, or it will be the w-worse for you.” He manages to say, cursing his poor speech and how his tongue never seems to do what he wants.  
The elf looks at him with something akin to disappointment in his eyes, before the professional leer is back in place, indolent and easy.  
“Then I shall take my leave.”  
He melts into the darkness of the hallways, and Cullen spends three hours checking for him, and pretends he isn’t a little disappointed when he finds no trace of the rogue.

  
The second time Cullen meets Zevran, he’s alone in the dormitory, working on an essay about Harrowing, and how it keeps mages from being abominations. The texts are dry and ancient, and Cullen can’t help but think it might be wrong to consider that mages should die if they cannot keep themselves under control. He startles as a finger is smoothed down between his eyes.  
“You will give yourself wrinkles, pretty thing.” The elf purrs, and Cullen should be on his feet, should already be moving towards his sword, out of reach, and his armour, away for cleaning – “Hush, don’t think so loudly.”  
“You should not – “ Cullen begins, and then his voice catches in the stutter, making him stop. For some reason, he does not wish to look the fool in front of this rogue. The elf clucks his tongue, gentle, and cups Cullen’s cheek in one rough, callused hand. The movement should feel like a threat – after all, this stranger has myriad weaponry all over him, and looks like he could be just as deadly unarmed – but the Templar finds himself leaning into that touch, just for a second.  
“I am Zevran Arainai, of the Antivan Crows.” The elf says, voice low and melodic, “But do not fear, you are not of enough importance for me to have a contract on you.”  
Cullen can feel his eyes widening. The Crows are legendary assassins, and if one is here, surely there is a target somewhere, surely someone needs to be warned. He makes to stand, but Zevran’s hands are on his shoulders, holding him to the chair with deceptive strength for one so slight; or perhaps it is Cullen who feigns weakness, not wishing for those slim, long-fingered hands to leave him. The elf’s hands are hot where they touch him, through the thin cotton undershirt he wears in place of his armour. Zevran holds him there for a second, before letting go and moving away in the blink of an eye, smirking at the baffled Templar from across the room, before making his exit, cleanly and easily. Cullen shakes his head to clear it, and spends the next month trying and failing to cover up memories of slim hands and an easy smile with the Chant of Light.

  
The first time he kills a mage, binding their magic to render them harmless, before taking a sword to cleave the poor girl in two, he returns to the Templar dormitories to find Zevran waiting for him, all smirk and self-confidence, stretched out on a bed, and it is easier than it should be to raise the sword, still bloody, and smile in a way which has nothing to do with humour, but shows all his teeth. Zevran goes from laid out to upright in a split second, and his blades are out before Cullen has a chance to move. The elf’s foot takes him squarely in the back of the knee, and he falls, face first, onto the stone flags, not even time to put his hands out to steady him. His nose is broken, he’s certain, and tries to raise his head, the blood pooling on the floor in front of him. He does not cry out, and later will wonder why he did not, as there would have been plenty of others nearby who would have heard the cry. Zevran’s foot is heavy on the back of his neck, and booted, which is unusual for an elf. The stink of Antivan leather fills his already assailed nasal passages, and Cullen finds himself struggling against that pressure, firm and strong, keeping him down on the floor.  
“Foolish,” the elf comments, idly, and Cullen hears the sound of a dagger being used to pick fingernails, “To think your paltry training could take a Crow by surprise.”  
Too late, Cullen remembers that the Antivan is a deadly assassin, and that he just raised a sword to him. He promises that, should he live, he will never do something so stupid again.  
“Luckily for you,” Zevran continues, “I rather like how wilful you are. It will make it so much more fun when you realise that my victory is inevitable.” The sound of a dagger being sheathed relaxes Cullen’s muscles, almost without his volition.  
“I – “ he begins, but Zevran shushes him, listening to footsteps in the corridors nearby.  
“Try to be good.” The elf says, before he’s gone in a single move, leaving Cullen lying on the flagstones in his own blood, looking for all the world like he tripped over his own feet.

  
He nearly rubs himself raw over the memory of it, the feel of the boot on his neck, how it felt to, for once, not be expected to be in charge or keep order. When he wakes one night, a leather-gloved hand over his mouth, he doesn’t bit down, but relaxes.  
“Are you certain?” Zev asks, when Cullen leads him to a study room off the library, one of the few doors which locks in the Circle tower. Cullen says nothing, simply kneels, and Zevran hauls him upright, one-handed, to look him in the eye, “If we are going to do this, then we are going to do this properly.”  
Cullen doesn’t understand what that means, already dropping down into the haze which Zevran has heard called many names, but knows it only as the fall. The elf takes a deep breath.  
“You need a word to stop. If you do not have a watchword, this will – “  
“Lyrium.” Cullen blurts out, and then wonders why he did, but thought is slipping away from his grasp as Zevran smiles cruelly, and pushes him back down to his knees. The tryst is fast and brutal, and Cullen does not say his word, does not think of the way Zevran makes his heart race and his stomach fizz, does not think of how, after this, lyrium will hold little appeal. He gasps when he comes, Zevran above him, bigger, seemingly everywhere at once and all so overwhelming that words escape him, and he sees the world through the curtain of Zevran’s hair, before darkness washes over him.

  
Later, it is Zevran who holds him through the lyrium withdrawal, who soothes him when the nightmares come, and the demons seem to be pawing at him through the Fade. In moments of lucidity, between bouts of the sweating sickness, Cullen sees weariness in those amber eyes, which so rarely show their true emotions.  
“Can a man not be tired of seeing his lover in pain?” Zevran asks, when Cullen questions him about it the next time his mind is clear enough to remember, “Can I not fear for you?”  
His Antivan drawl is fading, slowly, through years of living and working in Ferelden, and where his words are sharper, the Templar feels that he can hear a little of himself in that. The years have been kinder to Zev than they have to him, or perhaps the Antivan simply has better bloodlines, barely a line on his face, until he smiles. Then the corners of his eyes crinkle with fine crow’s feet, appropriate for his old profession and who he ran with, and Cullen hopes beyond hope that he is the only person who sees Zev like this, relaxed, soul bared, and a real smile; not a leer or a smirk, but a true smile.  
“I’d have thought you liked seeing me this way.” He jokes, weakly but Zevran isn’t stupid, and he isn’t fooled by the attempt at humour.  
“Ah, darling, I only like seeing you this way when it is my body which has brought you to insanity, not when it is this… poison. There is no pleasure in a man, sweating and spread out, when he has no energy to give as good as he gets.”  
Cullen shakes his head at that, the smile rueful, and uses what little strength he has to lean up for a kiss, which is gladly given. As he goes to lie back down, Zevran grips his arm, suddenly sombre.  
“Ask me again if this is the same as the pain I put you in, and I won’t be back.” The assassin says, before the easy smirk is back, a smokescreen for any other feelings, and the elf lets him go, tucking the blankets closer around him.  
Cullen does not make the same mistake again.

They grow closer over time, the bond of pain and the knowledge of pain drawing them nearer to each other, strung up like Zevran has Cullen, hiked up and hitched to the hooks in the stables. Their fingers entwine like the skilful knots which chafe just enough on Cullen’s wrists, leaving soft marks which fade gently underneath his armour, without preventing him from holding a sword. Zevran’s hands are soft against his skin, hard on raw, abused flesh, giving him everything he needs and taking everything he must give up in order to truly be submissive. Cullen is Zevran’s balance, a light to all that darkness he keeps so cleverly hidden behind laughter and flirtation, and it gives Zev the power he needs, having the larger man completely at his mercy. They’re a good fit.  
“Do you ever think about… after?” Cullen asks, tentative, his heart in his mouth, and Zevran smiles, easy and sweet.  
“You believe that I would let another claim you, now that I have you docile and almost trained?”  
Cullen hears the words which aren’t spoken, which might never be heard, and leans in to his smaller lover’s body, feeling the warmth of the elf against his side. He chances a brief kiss to Zev’s cheek, and laughs as the elf gently shoves him away, cursing in Elvhen, the words flowing like water, and as the sun hits Zevran’s face, Cullen has to look away. He feels Zev’s arm wrap around him, and feels the soft press of lips against his, just for a second, and then the assassin is gone, just a glint of light on Skyhold’s ramparts – golden against so much cold stone.


End file.
